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Some people move in and out of your life like library books, and others make a deep and lasting impression on your story. I don’t remember becoming friends with someone I’ll call Susan — she was just always there. We went to the same kindergarten, elementary school and high school. Our paths diverged when I went to university, but our bond endured.
In the early days, life with her was full of adventure and laughter. We ripped up the dance floor together every Saturday night. We sang ourselves hoarse and laughed at our own inside jokes. We enjoyed our first international trip together. I couldn’t imagine life without her.
We were there for each other’s major milestones: my graduation party, our wedding celebrations and housewarmings. We were friends for 33 years. And then we weren’t. When someone is woven into the tapestry of your life from such a young age, the tattering of the threads is complex and painful.
She was always full of fun and fire, but that had a flip side. Her feisty charm could instantly morph into volatility or thoughtlessness.
When I was 18, she abandoned me at a club, leaving me to walk home alone at 2 a.m. I arranged a fancy dinner for my 25th birthday, and she dropped out because of a hangover. We stopped swapping gifts the year after she gave me vodka for Christmas (I hate it!). I sometimes felt like she was jealous or dismissive about my accomplishments, whereas I was her constant cheerleader.
By the time we reached our 30s, our social priorities were moving in different directions. Her nights out were less frequent since becoming a mom, so when she did get out, she wanted to party into the wee hours of the morning. Even without kids, I preferred to be tucked home in bed by midnight.
On reflection, perhaps we just outgrew each other. The foundation of our friendship relied too much on common history, not common values or our emerging lives. Drinking and partying had been the glue that held us together in our youth. As we matured and things changed, we became unstuck.
Our relationship had shifted from the halcyon days of dancing until the sun came up, to nights out endured through a sense of obligation.
Things came to a head when I was moving to Barcelona for a year. We had a huge falling out at my going-away party. For her, child-free nights were a rarity. She wanted to go clubbing. I wanted a quiet bar where we could have a proper chat before I left. When she didn’t get her way, she screamed at me in front of a bar full of people. I scuttled out, mortified and hurt.
The next day I expected an apologetic phone call, or at least a text. I was getting on a plane and not coming back for a year. The silence was deafening and devastating. Normally when we had issues, I would be the one to back down and reach out. This time, I didn’t.
Three months later, as I settled into my new life in Barcelona, my birthday came and went with no contact. That felt significant, as throughout our friendship she had never missed my birthday. That day the fog lifted, and I realized our friendship was over; she was never going to apologize, and she was never going to change.
I could have fought for our relationship, but that was the moment I understood I no longer wanted to. I thought there would be a Susan-shaped hole in my life, but surprisingly there wasn’t. There was just a gap — an opening that made space for new and interesting friends. Friends who treated me with the same care and attention that I gave them.
When I left Barcelona, my new friend Isabel threw me a farewell dinner. It was the antithesis of the previous year: warm, easy, no drama. More than a dozen years after leaving Barcelona, Isabel is still one of my closest friends. Whereas things with Susan had become stressful and awkward, my relationship with Isabel is effortless and supportive.
Susan reached out to me a year and a half after the spectacle she created at the bar. It was New Year’s Eve — perhaps she was feeling sentimental. I replied politely but noncommittally that I felt I deserved a lot more, a lot sooner. While I left the door ajar, she didn’t follow up. That was the last interaction we ever had.
I read once that friends are for a reason, a season or a lifetime. We had our season, but we can’t get it back: those leaves have crisped and fallen. I’m now lucky to have many evergreen friends in my life, and perhaps I treasure them more because of my experience with Susan.
My relationship with her was my longest, but it has been cleansing to let the heartache go. Even though it ended badly, it was still a significant chapter in my life. I learned the hard way that people will only treat you badly if you let them. My time with Susan also made me realize that the most important relationship is the one you have with yourself. I loved her once, I loved our time together, but in the end, I loved myself more.
I feel sad that our ending didn’t do our long relationship justice, and I share the blame in that. But I’m at peace with the fact she is no longer a part of my life.
Have you ever had an old friendship end? How did you feel? Let us know in the comments below.
Jon Krause
Follow Article Topics: Relationships
